


The Fly

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Leather Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 13:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10491966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: Edge finds himself more than a little distracted by Bono's leather pants.Set during ZooTV era.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fouroux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fouroux/gifts).



> The other day I came across a picture of Bono I had seen a hundred times, dressed as the Fly, in his tight leather pants that made my mind go wheeeee!! And I decided, well I need to write a fic where Edge likey the leather pants. And then I remembered Jana had written a fic like that, and I told Jana and Jana said WHO CARE, WRITE IT, so I did in one sitting, because who needs to do homework anyway? So here it is. I'm not sure what is going on in this fic, but I think at some point Edge's brain broke. Or mine. Maybe mine. I hope you all enjoy.

Bono had worn leather before, of course.

But that had been in the days before, when he’d been almost straight up and down, soft enough in the middle, barely hard enough in places to make it all seem worth the while. His thighs, his fucking thighs - those goddamn thighs of his - had never quite been able to fill leather the way they could now.

Oh, it had been still an impressive package, Edge couldn’t deny that, but there had been a sense of innocence, a _dress up in your favourite rockstar ensemble and hope for the best_ feel to it all. And even later, when Bono had started to turn away from the boyish qualities of before, when he had started to become ( _voluptuous - like a lady; a boy turning into a curvaceous babe_. Adam’s words, not his, spoken in the affected tone of a surfer dude. Vodka had been involved at the time, of course) a man, Edge had found himself not quite as focused as he should have been, as there had been clear blue eyes and a chest that was exposed much, much more than it had any right to be.

Of course Bono had worn leather then. Of course his thighs had started to harden, turning into this powerful tool that supported him, made him who he was, gave him the perfect amount of thickness that, when viewed appropriately, was almost damaging to any old delicate psyche - because imagine those thighs uncovered, spread or clenching, tightening as they worked their magic under the covers. Edge had never quite been right since that first day he considered it, really. Not quite right at all.  

But it had taken him a while, because Bono had boasted all sorts of wonderful little distractions above the waist - and around the waist, backward and frontward, because certainly that area was the most fun to play with; though there was his mouth to consider also - and Edge had been giddy enough with that overwhelming first sense of want, of need, of daresay even affection, that it had been hard to move away from it all.

It had, as it often did with Bono, taken all of five seconds to break Edge completely. One night, one late night, the knock had come, bringing with it a smile and a lewd look almost hidden by dark glasses. His shirt had been black, his jacket more of the same, glimmering beneath the light and the night, and his pants had been leather. Clinging tight against his hips, his thighs, appearing as though they had been painted on by the devil himself. After five seconds of staring, Edge had fucking lost his mind.

“You like it then?” Bono had gasped when he’d been permitted enough time to come up for air, his neck and cheeks rosy red. It had been a pain to get those pants down, but Edge had found he enjoyed the challenge. “I’m thinking of keeping it. The look, I mean. For the-”

“Stop talking.” But after, when he’d had enough brain cells to think, Edge had agreed. Keep the look. For the show, for the press, for humanity, for every moment of his waking hour, for god sakes, just keep the look.

Bono had. Of course he had; his mind had been made up even before he had come knocking on Edge’s door. “It makes me look thinner,” he said one night, admiring himself side on in the mirror, but Edge knew he was thinking: _it makes me look hot_. And he had thought it, no doubt, that first time it had all come together, and again when Edge had confirmed it with a frantic jumping. After all, he had sought out those pants for a reason, with a thought in his mind, a goal of driving them all insane - or if not them, maybe just Edge. Bono liked the attention. Because of course he did.

 

*******

 

Edge was no Anton Corbijn, but he liked to take photographs all the same. Of trees, or the surf, or that interesting way leaves scattered themselves after a stormy evening. He was into the way the world looked, developing film after film of nature and occasionally some cats, showing them all off to the others and receiving mutterings of, “Oh, that’s nice, would you look at that.” Or sometimes, “Why did you take five pictures of the same fucking rock? Why are you even _showing_ me this, Edge,” because there was only so much forced interest that Larry could muster.

Bono, for his part, always seemed interested. And sometimes he would say, “You’ve got such an eye for beauty,” and Edge would agree, internally, though not in the way Bono meant. He didn’t think, anyway.

He used a different camera when he photographed Bono. His old beat up Polaroid, which brought them both instant gratification and allowed for the sort of pictures that they just couldn’t take with any other camera, couldn’t even dare to think about bringing in. For the most part, Edge figured those at the camera shops couldn’t give a single shit about the images they were developing, but when faced with a famous person, when faced with a picture of _Bono_ looking like he did in the photos Edge liked to take of him, even the kindest person might just consider selling them to the highest bidder. Though, sometimes Edge found himself wondering how Bono would react in that scenario, and sometimes he could picture a proud little grin.

Clad in leather, his feet bare and his face naked and wide open, thighs spread as he looked headlong, Bono was a vision. And when the photo would develop, the laugh would come, or something else entirely, and Edge would raise the camera once more, capturing whatever followed. It was mostly tame enough for general audiences. But there were a few that Edge could blush about, that Bono would shake his head about and say, “Are you going to destroy them?” even as his eyes dared Edge to do anything but.

And Edge would sigh, shake his head and reply, “I’ll think about it.” It always brought out the brightest of smiles, because Bono knew Edge, through and through.

The tamest of photographs were kept in the second drawer of his dresser, tucked underneath a mountain of socks. But those other photos Edge kept well hidden in his wardrobe, in a place where only he would think to look - and rarely he did, but on those nights when he just couldn’t quite help himself and needed some visual accompaniment, he would find himself afterwards reaching for the phone and stopping himself two numbers in. Those nights where not for them, he knew, but still it was hard.

 

*******

 

In those moments right before the show began, Bono could be anything. Focused, distracted, smiling or not, his voice quiet as they talked, a gentle prayer or a playful punch, laughing as he did in those sorts of times; as mercurial as he had always claimed to be.

He was fun, or he was not, and, on those certain nights where Edge had started to imagine way before they were able to follow through on such thoughts, he was a terror.

“How much do you want to fuck me right now?” he whispered in Edge’s ear one night before stepping away; moments later it was on with the show.

Edge silently cursed him half the night, even as his gaze was drawn to the shiny leather parading around the stage, strutting like a peacock, posing with his feathers in full view, asking the crowd for more, asking them to consider what it might be like to fuck him - though maybe it was all for Edge.

There was always a chance that it was, and thankfully, Edge had long ago trained his hands to work on muscle memory, because on those nights, those damned nights when Bono was at his most playful on stage, stalking until he just had to saunter over and whisper in his ear, mentally Edge was completely fucking useless.

After the show, Bono was bad. He knew it too, that smile on his face, and Edge punished him accordingly.

 

*******

 

It was strange, Edge found, being caught up as he was. In the before time he had been happy just to fuck Bono the way he was, no clothes, no fuss, just a look and a kiss that turned into so much more. He was easy - as long as Bono was there, he was just glad to be a part of it. It had been simple, though if Bono suggested anything different, he was up for that too. Mostly.

“Edge, do you trust me?” Bono had asked once, holding a length of rope. Somehow, Edge had managed to change his mind, turn it around until he was holding the rope and Bono’s question was different: “How tight can you tie a knot before it starts to hurt?”

Edge hadn’t known, but they had found out together, like a deranged couple of scientists, laughing about it after even as Bono had been forced to wear his sleeves long in the midst of summer.

But that had been in the before time. Now, it was different. Now, Edge found himself focused on the area of Bono that was below his waist - not just what was in his pants, though Edge certainly had his own wonderful obsession with Bono’s cock, but the pants specifically. And sure, it was still an amazing thing, sex with Bono, because of course it was, but when the pants came off a strange little part of Edge missed them completely.

Unfortunately for proceedings, though, those pants were just too tight to work things out the way Edge wanted them to. He tried, though, experimenting as he might with Bono his blissful subject.

“On your belly,” Edge instructed one night, and Bono swiftly flopped straight down, thighs pressed tightly together until the pants were wrestled down past the swell of his arse.

Even before the touch came, Bono shivered, his skin prickling with anticipation, a moan ready to slip out. The smell of leather lingered, and it was enough to set Edge off; one hand gripping at the wrinkle of pants below, the other trailing upwards, finding the back of Bono’s neck as his mouth discovered skin so pale it was practically glowing beneath the ceiling light. He kissed where the pants had covered, kissed between, a gentle tongue that turned hard when Bono crumbled beneath him and spread those thighs in a silent _please_ , filling the room with sounds that belonged in the sort of porno films Edge claimed not to watch.

It was a ruckus that he couldn’t ignore, an invitation that had his name front and centre. He plowed ahead quite happily, yanking at those pants until he could spread Bono’s thighs further, arranging him until he was exactly how God intended him to be in such a moment. And then Edge fucked the holy hell out of him.

After, though, with Bono warm at his side, fingers stroking his brow, Edge felt the slightest tinge of disappointment. He knew he couldn’t fuck the pants outright - not that he even wanted to; it was a package deal that he was interested in. But still, there was something he wanted, that he couldn’t quite figure out how to get.

“If I were to accidentally rip your leather pants . . .” he started one night, unsure of how he even wanted to continue. There was the trappings of an idea in his mind, but it didn’t quite seem worthwhile to consider. After all, he didn’t want to damage the pants, but if it came down to it .  . . well, maybe -

“You would be a dead man walking,” Bono said pleasantly.

“Right.”

With that settled, it was best to just move on. Consider another way. He was smart, he could do this. Surely, he could figure out a way for them to get off while Bono was in the pants.

 

*******

 

The problem was, those leather pants were just too damn tight.

Still, from time to time Edge managed to squirm his hand down the front and go from there, until Bono was vibrating with need -  though to rush on towards what they both needed the pants always, _always_ had to be slipped away. He could get Bono hard, sure, and leave him wanting it all the more, but there just wasn’t enough room to get his hand moving the way they both needed it to.

It was a bitch of a situation to be in, and Edge found himself obsessed with finding a solution.

Bono, for his part, was mostly amused. A willing subject quite happy to assist Edge in his studies. Though, like everyone, he had a breaking point.

“You know, Edge, I’m not complaining,” Bono started one day, “trust me, I am most definitely _not_ complaining about all the sex. But, it’s gotten to the point where I see you and my brain instantly starts sending happy signals to my cock, you know? I mean, we’ve fucked in so many different cities recently that I’ve started to associate hotel beds with fucking, and on those nights when you’re not around? What the hell am I supposed to do then, lying in that big bed by myself thinking such thoughts? What would you suggest, Edge?”

“Well, you could call me?” Edge ventured, trying to hide his smile and failing completely. His ego was puffing up, and even while whining Bono still looked a treat. “I would come if you called me, you know.”

“I know.” Bono waved a hand. “And then you’d come around and it would start all over again. And again. And _again_. Edge, I’m pretty sure I’ve got chafing at this point, for fuck sake.”

“Wait, let me get this straight. You’re complaining that we have sex too much-”

“I’m not complaining-”

“-but then you’re annoyed at me because, on those rare nights where I’m somewhere else - not fucking you - I should be there. Fucking you? Is that what you’re complaining about?”

“I’m not _complaining_!”

“It sounds like you’re complaining, B. About what, I’m not entirely sure. But you’ve got that tone about you.”

Bono huffed. “All I’m saying,” he started loudly, before catching himself, “is . . . is - look, fuck off, alright?”

“Alright, I’ll just go to my respective room and wait for you to call me over for a completely ‘uncalculated’ fuck.”

“Are you accusing me of being manipulative? Is that what you’re saying, with your fucking finger quotes?”

“Of course I am. This is just another way to get me into bed, you getting all whiny about shit.”

Bono rolled his eyes, but he had no immediate response. Turning away, he considered the carpet for a long moment, a smile threatening to tug at his cheeks. “I don’t need to be manipulative to get that,” he muttered.

“No. And yet, you are.”

“And yet, I am.” Bono let out a dramatic sigh. “You know, Edge, the real problem here is that I’ve got this whole image now, where I’m stuck in those pants and expected to wear them. And that’s great and all, but whenever I put the fucking things on, I think of you getting all hot under the collar about them.” He looked at Edge, resigned. “Those pants are so tight, you can’t hide anything in them - especially not an erection, Edge.”

“I know,” Edge said. “That’s part of the appeal.”

“Of course it is,” Bono sniffed. “You bastard.”

After that, Edge fled to his respective room and waited. The phone call came late into the night, as he knew it would, Bono’s voice playful as he said, “Oh, Edge, I’ve been so _bad_. The thoughts I’ve been having about you . . .”

 

*******

 

Slowly, it seemed to fade a little, becoming a lingering thought simmering below the surface instead of all-encompassing. Still, it came forward on those nights when he needed it, and sometimes when he didn’t, pulling his thoughts south as he pulled Bono closer, the breath against his ear warm as the words were said, “What are you thinking, love?”

 _So many things_ , Edge wanted to answer, but he could never quite find the words. And when Bono smiled at him, eyes warm, from across the room or pressed tightly together, Edge knew it didn’t matter. Not much else did matter, in those single blinding moments.

There was something Edge wanted to say to him, and he had so many chances; in the heat of the moment, in the quiet of the after, the two of them just breathing together. Or even on a normal day, at a normal time, as the sight of Bono just laughing filled him with an urge that wasn’t primal, wasn’t much of anything but _warm_ , bubbling through his body and lurching in his chest.

He had so many chances, but he never took them. Though, he was sure Bono knew.

Life was bustling, picking up steam and causing _things_ , as they often tended to do after a time, to slow down a little. Still, they managed to find the time, one night slipping away from a gathering, Bono adamant that no one would notice their absence, Edge countering that Bono was the life of the party, and they bickered about it on the way up to one of their rooms, the first they came to, losing interest in the subject completely once the door closed behind them.

Bono pressed up close to him, smiling into his neck. “Hi.” His voice was muffled, and Edge brought his hand up to stroke hair that was stiff at the start, soft at the ends. He felt the slickness of Bono’s teeth against his skin as the smile grew, and they stood like that for a few warm seconds, him petting Bono like a dog while fingers clutched at the shirt on his back. Then came the question, “What are you thinking, love?”

There were so many ways in which he might answer. He didn’t choose any, instead staying silent as he led Bono from the room. “Let me guess: The Edge, in the bedroom, with his cock. Am I getting warm?”

“There was no cock for a weapon in Cluedo, Bono.”

“There was no Edge either, and yet,” Bono spread his arms wide, “here we are.”

After stripping naked, Edge straddled Bono, fingering the delicate button closest to his neck as he kissed him there, hands trailing south as Bono’s mouth found his eagerly. “What’s your endgame tonight?” Bono asked when he was able, his lips reddened, eyes sparkling, and he laughed when Edge just tapped him on his nose. “Is that how we’re doing this then? I’m not getting a clue?”

“You’re getting something though.”

“Something. . .” Bono nodded. “Something is always fun.”

It was, though Edge, as was often the case, still wasn’t entirely sure of what that something was until he was doing it. He kissed Bono once more, deep and lingering, before pulling away, surveying the damage and pulling himself together so that he could form even half a thought about anything, and then it all left him as swift as it came. He didn’t have _an_ idea, he had plenty, a notion that struck him, forced him to shuffle around, until his back was to Bono, his thighs straddling once more. “Well,” Bono said, “that’s something, alright.”

The leather was cool against his hands, his featherlight touch bringing out a sudden laugh from Bono. Something to file away for later, as a means of getting what he wanted when he wanted, through the most cheerful of tortures. _Places where Bono was ticklish: feet, under the ribs, against his left shoulder blade (but strangely, not his right), and now, as it turned out, his thighs._ Always good to know, even if it wasn’t what he needed right now.

He chose a different tactic, a harder touch and a softer mouth, the leather tasting different to what he expected, more synthetic than earthy. He wasn’t sure he liked the taste, but still he sucked, kissed, and mouthed at the maddening material, until Bono began to harden against his mouth. The moans came forth, hands gripping at his calves, and Edge found himself smiling against slick leather, curious as Bono had been to find out his endgame.

“You like that?” he asked. It was a question that belonged in the sort of porno films Edge claimed not to watch, as was the tone of his voice, and when Bono laughed at him Edge chose to ignore it. It was serious time, and he was completely serious, in his intentions and all over, though he couldn’t help but skim his fingertips across Bono’s thighs, just so he could hear that laugh once more. Oh, he was weak, a weak weak man who just couldn’t help himself.

“Edge . . .” Bono said coyly, grip tightening against Edge’s calves. “Edge.”

There were at least a hundred different ways Bono had said his name over the years, and every single one had affected him - in ways that were always surprising. He smiled this time, pressed an open mouth kiss against straining leather, and slid his legs down, down until he was near flat against Bono, his cock in that prime position, allowing Bono to attend to him with an eager mouth. Wet hot heat, diverting his attention, making him thrust, making him forget himself for a moment or two, and then, when faced with the sight of slick black leather, Edge was struck with a sudden realization. Then and there, he didn’t care about the pants. Couldn’t give a shit. He just wanted to get to what was inside of them.

It was a struggle to push them down, Bono moaning, his mouth hot, so hot that Edge could barely think. Then there were fingernails biting into his skin, pulling him back, making him focus, and, with the pants out of the way, Edge just went to town - though his hands were outstretched, reaching to out to brush against shiny leather, because he was, after all, a man who knew what he liked.

Afterward, maybe an hour later, maybe so much more, all they could do was laugh, breathlessly, slightly overwhelmed with it all, Bono’s hair against Edge’s fingers damp from sweat. “Well,” Bono said, “that - that, Edge, was _something_.”

Edge agreed with a sated, “Sure,” casting his gaze briefly toward the abandoned pants before turning his attention squarely back on Bono.

 

*******

 

Life continued on, Bono bustling around in tight, tight pants that caught Edge’s eye, brought his gaze up and down in appreciation of the everything that was he, the rock star, the lost little boy clad in black searching for someone to hold on to for a time.

He was, as always, a terrible distraction. And of course, often they found themselves together, tucked away when they should have been elsewhere, with that ever so important question again being asked, “What are you thinking, love?”

It was a question to ponder, even as he stripped Bono of his pants.

“Sometimes, I think - I feel as though I’m obsessed,” Edge admitted one night.

Bono laughed, as though he knew. And maybe he did. Regardless, he asked, “Oh? With what?”

It would have been so easy to point at his pants, but Edge knew it wasn’t quite right. Not anymore. No, it was something else entirely. He was silent for a long moment, looking over Bono’s shoulder as he considered whether or not it was right to say. But he had to. He was sure he did, because no doubt Bono partly knew anyway. “With you.”

The smile that appeared on Bono’s face told Edge he was right. Still, Bono’s cheeks tinged pink, his smile turned bashful, and when he spoke his voice sounded so affected that Edge couldn’t stop himself from reaching out a hand to touch. “You don’t say.” He leaned into the hand in his hair, the smile lingering. “Well . . . we’ll see if I can’t change your mind.”

“No.”

“No,” Bono agreed, shaking his head. “No, it’s better if I don’t, I think. But you know you’ll never be rid of me now, right?”

Edge knew. But he didn’t have to say it; Bono just knew.

“A constant annoyance, buzzing around you causing all kinds of shit,” Bono continued, seemingly blissfully ignorant to how he was most of the time. Though Edge knew it was all just an act. All of it. It was just an act. “That'll be me. A constant distraction that you just can’t seem to swat away.” The smile on Bono’s face turned downward, his eyes lighting up as he leaned forward to whisper in Edge’s ear, “Just like a fly.”

 


End file.
